


Sought for the Open Sea

by inexplicifics



Series: The Accidental Warlord and His Pack [31]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Adopted Children, Faked Suicide, Multi, Secret Identity, Storytelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:02:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27458431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inexplicifics/pseuds/inexplicifics
Summary: Lady Elen, wife of Crach an Craite of Skellige, welcomes a group of Witchers to her husband's lands.A few months later, Cormac of the Griffins has a really interesting story to tell Geralt and his council...and then Geralt has a story of his own to tell.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Pavetta (The Witcher)/Crach an Craite
Series: The Accidental Warlord and His Pack [31]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1683661
Comments: 156
Kudos: 2175





	Sought for the Open Sea

**Author's Note:**

> I think this has already come up briefly in another story, but if you've only seen the show, this fic is going to have some spoilers for things that haven't happened yet with Duny.

“Elen, come and say hello to our visitors!” Crach calls. Elen puts down her knitting and picks up a shawl, tucking it around herself as she leaves the hall. She’s been here more than a decade now, and the bitter winds off the sea _still_ bite almost to the bone.

The visitors are a quartet of Witchers, hands visibly open and empty. Elen tucks herself under Crach’s offered arm - he puts off heat better than a smithy’s fire - and smiles at the men, eyeing their medallions curiously. A Griffin, a Crane, a Manticore, and a Bear. No Wolves. She isn’t sure whether she’s relieved or dismayed.

She _is_ a little worried that they’re all staring at her, eyes wide in surprise. She’s never met any of them before, so there’s no reason for them to look so much like they’ve seen a ghost.

“Be welcome to Skellige,” she says, nodding to all of them and bobbing a brief curtsey.

“This’s my Elen,” Crach says proudly. “Prettiest lass in the islands! Elen, these’re Cormac an’ Ebert an’ Theo an’ Junod.” The Witchers nod as their names are spoken. “Come to talk to us about all the mess on the mainland.”

Elen smiles. “It _does_ sound as though there has been some uproar. We’d be glad to hear the truth of it from the horse’s mouth, as it were.”

“We shall be honored to tell it, my lady,” Cormac of the Griffins says, bowing elegantly.

“But not out here,” Elen adds. “Will you come in and accept the hospitality of the house?”

“Gladly, my lady,” Cormac says, and Crach gestures expansively, welcoming the Witchers in. Elen goes to summon the servants to bring food and drink for their guests, and to find Hjalmar and Cerys. Her stepchildren are, as usual, out on the practice fields, attempting to beat each other bloody; Hjalmar is stronger but slower, Cerys swifter but slighter, and they are very evenly matched. Elen whistles sharply to draw their attention.

“What is it, Muime?” Cerys asks, lowering her sword but keeping her eyes on her elder brother.

“We’ve guests from the White Wolf’s court,” Elen says. “Come and offer hospitality, as befits our house.”

“ _Witchers_!” Hjalmar says enthusiastically, and puts up his own sword. “Athair didn’t let me ask the last one _any_ questions - and I’m sure I could have helped him with that nest of harpies!”

“You’d have fallen and broken your fool head,” Cerys says, sheathing her sword and grinning. “Just like the Witcher said.”

Elen had not had much to do with the last Witcher to come to the islands; she was pregnant with Loki during the Witcher’s visit to Crach’s court, and it had been a hard few months. She’d been too sick to do much but sit and spin - even knitting had been beyond her - and Crach had not expected her to be hospitable while so ill. Cerys had brought her all the gossip, so she knows the last Witcher was a Cat named Aiden, who had agreed to hunt a great many harpies and sirens in return for little more than food, shelter, and the tending of his weapons and armor - a gesture of goodwill from the Warlord of the North to the Jarl of Skellige, since Crach has been very carefully _not_ attempting to interfere with the Warlord’s rule of his steadily-growing empire.

She follows Hjalmar and Cerys in and goes to fetch Ragnar; the lad is young yet, but old enough to be polite to guests. Loki is with his nursemaid Heather in the garden, babbling happily and pulling weeds - and, Elen is quite sure, things that are _not_ weeds, but Heather is a good teacher, and Loki will learn much of plant lore from her, even as Ragnar did.

When she rejoins her family in the main hall, the Witchers have been given ale and mutton and good buttered bread, and look entirely content with the world. Hjalmar is pestering the biggest of them - Junod of the Bears - with questions about his scars; Cerys is listening intently to Cormac as he speaks to Crach. Elen takes her place beside her husband, settling Ragnar on her lap.

“There you are,” Crach says, leaning over to press a bristly kiss to her cheek. Elen smiles and tugs gently on his flame-red beard.

“Here I am, indeed,” she agrees.

“And here’s my little lad!” Crach adds, plucking Ragnar out of her lap and hoisting him high. “Cormac, be known to Ragnar an Craite, my second son!”

“It is an honor,” Cormac says gravely, offering a hand to Ragnar, who takes it solemnly, just as Elen has taught him. “Hail and well met, Ragnar an Craite.”

“Hullo!” Ragnar chirps. “Your eyes are yellow!”

“So they are,” Cormac agrees, lips twitching as he suppresses a smile. “And yours are a fine shade of green.”

“Like my Mathair’s!” Ragnar agrees.

“Even so.” Cormac’s eyes flick to Elen, a brief piercing look.

“Did _your_ Mathair have yellow eyes?”

Cormac shakes his head. “No, lad, she did not. Yellow eyes are the mark of a Witcher; they turn yellow during our Trials.” He grins. “And they do this.” Slowly, his pupils narrow to slits like a cat’s eyes, and then expand again to a more normal round shape.

“Whoa,” Ragnar breathes, staring up at the man in wonder. “That’s fuckin’ _awesome_.”

“Ragnar!” Elen says, pressing a hand to her forehead. Crach guffaws.

“Lad’s been spending too much time with his brother,” he says, and taps Ragnar gently on the forehead. “That’s _outside_ language, my boy!”

“Oops,” Ragnar says, not sounding terribly repentant.

Cormac chuckles. “A spirited lad, as he should be,” he says warmly.

“Just so,” Crach agrees, and hands Ragnar a chunk of buttered bread to gnaw on. “Now, you were sayin’ about that cowardly streak of piss Henselt?”

Cormac nods. “Indeed. For reasons we have not yet discerned, he chose to attack the Warlord - not openly, in honorable battle, but in ambush, having suborned one of the Wolf’s mages. The Wolf was gravely injured.”

Elen leans forward, heart in her throat. “But he is well?” She doesn’t want to think of the sort of political upheaval which might result from the Warlord of the North’s death.

“Fully recovered, my lady,” Cormac assures her.

“But what happened to Henselt?” Cerys demands.

“Eskel Amber-Eyed led an assault on Vizima, and slew Henselt of Temeria and all those of his court who had been involved in the treasonous plot against the White Wolf,” Cormac informs her. “He placed Baron Griffin of Hirundum upon the throne in Henselt’s place.”

“That must have been very startling for Baron - pardon me, _King_ Griffin,” Elen observes, pressing a hand to her mouth.

“So I understand it was, my lady,” Cormac agrees. “He is doing well, however, by all accounts that I have heard, and is recently married to Lady Marika de Roggeven, a marchioness of Redania, whose sister is an advisor to the Wolf.”

“Well, that does explain the Wolf taking Temeria,” Crach says, nodding. “Calanthe’s not happy about it, but your Eskel couldn’t hardly do anythin’ _else_ after all that but what he did.”

Cormac nods. “Truly, it was no part of the Warlord’s plans to take Temeria this year, and we would have been entirely content to remain in peace with them, had Henselt not been so treacherous.”

“Treacherous and deeply foolish,” Elen says, shaking her head.

“ _Everyone_ knows not to pick a fight with the Warlord,” Cerys puts in, with all the fine disdain only a fifteen-year-old girl can muster. (Elen sometimes wonders at how _young_ Cerys is. She did not feel that young when _she_ was a girl of fifteen.)

“Certainly they _ought_ to know that,” Cormac says, rather ruefully. “Unfortunately, it sometimes seems we shall have to teach that lesson to every monarch on the continent, from Poviss to Nilfgaard, before they cease their folly.”

Elen tenses a little at the mention of Nilfgaard, but she doesn’t think anyone notices - except perhaps Cormac, with his sharp cat’s eyes. But he is polite enough not to mention it.

The rest of the meal goes quite well, as far as Elen can tell: Cerys and Hjalmar are very polite, for Skelliger values of polite, and the Witchers seem delighted to answer their questions, while Cormac relays news from all over the Warlord’s vast lands.

After luncheon, Elen reclaims Ragnar, meaning to bring him to his afternoon lessons, and takes a deep breath. “Will you walk with me, Cormac?”

“It would be my honor, my lady,” Cormac says, rising at once. He makes cheerful conversation with Ragnar until they’ve delivered the child to his tutor, and then follows Elen quietly as she leads the way to her solar. Elen gestures him into the chair that isn’t covered with her knitting, and takes her own seat, gathering needles and yarn into her lap.

“I have a question for you,” she says quietly. “It...may seem rather odd, but I assure you I mean no harm to any within the Warlord’s court.”

“Then as it is allowed, I shall answer gladly,” Cormac says.

“Is there -” Elen stops and takes a deep breath. “Is there one among the Wolf Witchers named Eric?”

Cormac frowns. “My lady, I am afraid there is not,” he says. “Or if there was, he died before the Warlord brought us all to Kaer Morhen.”

“No,” Elen says, “he was alive in 1230, for I met him then.”

“Then I am at a loss,” Cormac admits. “There is none among the Wolves by that name.”

Elen swallows hard. She was so _sure_ \- he _promised_ -

“I have brought you grief,” Cormac says softly. “I am sorry. Was he your lover, my lady?”

Elen shakes her head. “No, he was -” She takes a deep breath. “I bore a child, before I was wed to Crach, and gave her to a Wolf Witcher who had claimed her as his child of surprise, that he might keep her safer than I could. His name was Eric, so he told me, and he bore the medallion and the swords - and he fought like a Witcher, too. But if he is not known to you, then I must assume that either he died upon the road, and my daughter with him, or he was never a Witcher at all.” Either thought is bitter as poison.

Cormac frowns. “A daughter?” he says. “Born in 1230?”

“Yes.”

Cormac _looks_ at her, a long searching gaze that seems to see right down into her soul. “On Belletyn?” he asks at last.

“Yes!” Elen says, dropping her knitting and sitting bolt upright. “She - does she live? Did he bring her to Kaer Morhen?”

“There is in Kaer Morhen,” Cormac says, choosing his words very very carefully, “a child, born on Belletyn of 1230, with pale hair and green eyes very like unto yours, and her name is Ciri.”

Elen presses a hand to her lips. “Ciri,” she breathes. “My Ciri - he kept her name. But she is not daughter to a Witcher named Eric?”

Cormac hesitates. “No,” he says at last. “This is...not yet common knowledge, outside the Warlord’s lands. Will you swear to me to keep it discreet? Not secret, necessarily, but not to be spread about as rumor and gossip.”

“I swear,” Elen says at once. “To keep my daughter safe, I would - I would do almost anything.”

Cormac nods. “Ciri is the daughter and heir of the White Wolf...who in 1230 went out on the Path, and it would surprise me greatly if he had not disguised himself, as even then his appearance was well known outside his lands.”

Elen sits frozen, staring at him. The _White Wolf_. She gave her daughter, her precious Ciri, to the _White Wolf_ \- and he’s taken her as his _heir_. Her daughter is the heir to the northern empire - is a princess still. She has no idea how to feel about that.

“What -” she whispers at last. “What is she like?”

Cormac smiles. “Fierce and brilliant,” he says, tone very fond. “Clever, mischievous, affectionate, and extremely dangerous. She is the Wolf’s cub in truth.” He hesitates. “Forgive me, but I - and many of us - had thought, as she resembles him so closely, that she was the Wolf’s by blood, yet you say she was a child of surprise.”

“She was,” Elen says. “It was...all rather a horrible mess, truly, but my Ciri was not the child of the Witcher who named himself Eric to me.”

Cormac nods, and sits back in his chair, looking at her thoughtfully. Elen gathers her knitting up again, so that she has something to do with her hands. There’s a long, slightly tense silence. And then Cormac says, slowly, “You have little reason to trust me, my lady; you cannot smell lies and sincerity as Witchers do. Yet I pledge to you, I mean you no harm, and will not betray any secret you vouchsafe to me. The White Wolf has made it known that his daughter’s mother is dead, and yet I find you living, and you claim her as a mother would. Will you allow me to bear him word that you are _not_ dead, and remember your daughter with affection?”

Elen swallows. If she does this - if she does this, even if she only tells Cormac and _he_ only tells the White Wolf, that is still letting a secret out which she has kept for very good reason. But it is a secret that may well come out sooner rather than later, if the Warlord takes Cintra and Skellige surrenders to him, as Crach has promised the islands will do. Better, surely, for the White Wolf to know already, rather than to surprise him at some treaty meeting, with who knows what result. And Crach and Hjalmar and Cerys already know, after all; and someday Ragnar and Loki will, too.

“Yes,” she says, “you may tell him, him and his council, but he will not remember me as Elen an Craite, wife of the Jarl of Skellige.”

Cormac nods, waiting. Elen takes a slow, deep breath.

“He will remember me as Pavetta, princess of Cintra.”

*

“She is,” Cormac says, spreading his hands and shrugging, “a Source, much like the cub, but weaker, and untrained. When Emhyr var Emreis brought her out to sea and bade her accompany him to Nilfgaard and be his empress, she cast herself from the ship in horror, and out of sheer desperation formed a portal, despite not knowing how, nor where it would deposit her. She landed in Skellige, and was taken in by a vassal of Crach an Craite, who nursed her to health again. She met and married Crach, and has borne him two children; she seems very happy with her life, but wishes devoutly that Emhyr var Emreis shall never discover her whereabouts, nor that she lives, for she fears that he might use her as a weapon against Cintra, to claim its throne by virtue of having married its princess.”

“Huh,” Eskel says, sitting back and frowning. “And she gave you permission to tell us this?”

“The Warlord’s Council and his Heir,” Cormac confirms.

“ _Huh_ ,” Eskel says again, and glances over at Geralt, who is even more unreadable than usual, and Jaskier, who has his _composing_ expression on again.

And past them, Ciri, who looks utterly gobsmacked.

“My mother is alive?” she says at last, voice very small.

“Yes, cub,” Cormac says, very gently. “Alive, and, if my nose is to be trusted, loves you dearly.”

“Oh,” Ciri says, and scrambles out of her chair and into Geralt’s lap. Geralt curls his arms around her and holds her close. “Papa,” Eskel hears her whisper, “what should I _do_?”

“Hm,” Geralt says. “I don’t know. You might write her a letter.”

“I could do that,” Ciri says.

Eskel catches Yen’s eye. This will need to be discussed - not the letter, it’s a good idea, but the fact that Pavetta of Cintra is alive and married to the Jarl of Skellige, if it ever comes out, is going to be a _fascinating_ mess.

“This does not leave this room,” Eskel says at last. “Cormac, do your companions know any of this?”

“They may have guessed,” Cormac allows. “Lady Elen looks _very_ like the cub.”

“Then we’ll speak to them about keeping their mouths shut,” Eskel says. “Thank you, Cormac. You’ve done very well.”

Cormac stands and bows and takes his leave. Eskel stares blankly at the closed door for a while, and then says, “Alright, Wolf, I didn’t think it was important before, but I think now you’d better tell us what the fuck _actually_ happened, not just ‘Pavetta gave me her daughter.’”

“Details,” Jaskier agrees. “I need _details_. I know, I know, this can never be a song, but what the _fuck_ , Geralt.”

“Many details,” Yen agrees, conjuring a goblet of wine for herself and mugs of ale for Vesemir and Eskel and Treyse. “It didn’t matter so much when we thought Pavetta was dead, but now…”

Geralt sighs and kisses Ciri’s head before he looks up to meet Eskel’s eyes, looking rueful. “Details,” he agrees. “Because I’m so good at those.”

“Please, Papa,” Ciri whispers, and Geralt nods.

“I’ll try, cub. Hm. I ended up in Cintra in early March. Wanted to see what was going on outside Kaedwen, figured Cintra was far enough. Calanthe hired me to kill a nasty pack of graveirs, and I got back the day before Pavetta’s betrothal feast. Guess Calanthe figured I was there, might as well attend.”

“And you were going as Eric?” Jaskier puts in, looking very curious. “Why Eric?”

Eskel snorts, and Vesemir grins. Geralt puts a hand over his face.

“Papa?” Ciri asks, looking from Geralt to Eskel to Vesemir in confusion.

“Way back when your Papa was a young and foolish trainee,” Vesemir begins, “he was told to choose a name to use on the Path. And your Papa, darling cub, desperately wanted to be a knight.”

Geralt groans quietly.

“Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde,” Eskel says, rolling each word off his tongue with great relish.

“Holy _fuck_ ,” Jaskier says, and falls over in a fit of laughter. Ciri giggles so hard she almost joins Jaskier on the floor. Yen puts a hand over her eyes and bites her lip, hard, to try to keep from laughing. Geralt sighs.

“ _Hm_ ,” he says. “Pavetta was meant to marry Crach. Guess that worked out eventually. But a knight showed up before Calanthe could make it official, and claimed he’d a right to Pavetta’s hand. Said he’d saved old King Roegnor’s life, years ago, and been promised the Law of Surprise.”

Jaskier hauls himself back into his chair, wrinkling his nose. “Well that’s a deeply fucked-up way of interpreting that.”

Eskel nods agreement. “Was he telling the truth?”

“Far as I could tell, yes,” Geralt says. “There was a whole...mess...with him not wanting to take his helmet off, and then it turned out he’d been cursed to be a hedgehog monster, and Calanthe tried to kill him, and I stopped her.” He sighs and shrugs. “Then Pavetta nearly brought the whole hall down, screaming for her lover, and Calanthe decided she might as well give her daughter what she wanted. Give Crach his due, he took it well. Hedgehog fellow - Duny, he called himself - offered me anything I wanted for saving his life, and I claimed the Law of Surprise.” He kisses Ciri’s head. “Then Pavetta declared she was pregnant.”

“Well,” Jaskier says after a moment. “That sounds like a deeply eventful evening.” He frowns. “Early March, and Ciri’s birthday is Belletyn - how had no one noticed?”

“I think the court druid helped,” Geralt says. “He’s a good man.”

“I see,” Jaskier says. “So you’d laid claim to Pavetta’s unborn child, and then...stuck around?”

Geralt shrugs. “Pavetta asked. Said she wanted to know the man who’d be father to her child.”

Eskel nods. “Seems fair to me.”

“Got to know her a bit,” Geralt continues. “Guess she got to trust me. She came to me, couple days before Belletyn. Said Duny’d told her who he really was. Said he was looking forward to having an heir to Nilfgaard and Cintra both.” He takes a deep breath. “Asked me to take the child as soon as it was born, because she wouldn’t be the tool that let Nilfgaard claim her kingdom.”

“Oh,” Ciri whispers. “Oh, poor _Mama_.”

“She was only a few years older than you, cub,” Geralt murmurs, brushing Ciri’s hair back gently. “Young, and scared, and so brave.”

“Fifteen is too young to marry,” Jaskier says. “Far too young, especially for a girl.”

“ _You’re_ not allowed to marry until you’re thirty,” Eskel informs Ciri, who wrinkles her nose at him.

“I don’t want to marry _anyone_ yet, Uncle Eskel.”

“Good,” Eskel says. “There’s not a man born who’s worthy of you.” Or if there is, Eskel’s never met him - who could be worthy of their _cub_ , fearless and fierce and ruthlessly kind as she is?

“I might marry a woman,” Ciri points out.

“...Fair,” Eskel allows. “Still not until you’re thirty.”

“You could just take a page out of the Zerrikanians’ book and have a harem,” Yen suggests. “As many pretty men and women as your heart desires.”

Ciri giggles. “I don’t want _any_ yet, Aunt Yen.”

“Well, when you do, let me know,” Yen says, frowning at her empty goblet for a moment until it fills itself again. “I can give you tips.”

“Aunt _Yen_ ,” Ciri says, giggling harder. “You’re _dreadful_.”

“Yes, darling cub, but you knew that,” Yen agrees. “So you took Ciri as soon as she was born, then, Geralt?”

Geralt nods. “When you were born, cub,” he says softly to Ciri, “Pavetta named you, and blessed you, and kissed you, and gave you into my arms. I left Cintra that night, with a milk goat and an infant.” He shakes his head. “It was a _very_ long trip back. Infants are harder than monsters.”

Ciri laughs.

“And Pavetta told everyone the babe was stillborn?” Jaskier guesses. “I think I heard something about that, though I was too young to pay much attention to the political news, really.”

Geralt nods. “Kept Emhyr from looking for Ciri.” He shrugs. “That’s the whole of it.”

“Well,” Eskel says. “That’s...you _do_ get in the damnedest trouble, Wolf. How do you do it?”

Geralt gives him a plaintive, baffled look, and shrugs eloquently.

“Mama was very brave,” Ciri decides. “I think I _will_ write to her, and thank her for giving me to you, Papa. I like being the Wolf’s cub a lot better than I’d like being princess of Nilfgaard. And Mama should know she made the right choice.”

“You’ve a kind heart, darling cub,” Yen says, smiling. Geralt kisses Ciri’s forehead again. Jaskier sighs.

“It would make _such_ a good song,” he laments. “Also, when Calanthe dies, it could be argued that Pavetta - Elen, I should say - is queen of Cintra, Nilfgaard, _and_ Skellige. There’s a fine list of titles!”

“Worse’n mine,” Geralt agrees, straight-faced, and Eskel snorts a laugh.

“Well,” he says, “I’m very grateful she told Cormac this _now_. Can you imagine the mess if we’d met her for the first time without warning?”

Vesemir winces. “Yes, I can,” he says, and drains his entire mug of ale. “Thank the gods for the wisdom of Lady Elen of Skellige, then. And let none of us speak of her past, save among ourselves.”

“We will keep her secret,” Jaskier agrees. “And someday I think I should like to meet her.”

“Yes,” Eskel agrees, and shakes his head. “You’re never allowed to leave Kaer Morhen without an escort again, Wolf. Who knows what sort of mess you’d get into next time!”

“Hey,” Geralt says mildly. “ _You_ had that thing with the succ-”

Eskel slaps a hand over Geralt’s mouth. “Nope nope nope we’re _not_ mentioning that!”

“I want to hear _that_ story,” Jaskier says, eyes alight.

“I _don’t_ ,” Ciri says, sliding out of Geralt’s lap and leaning over to kiss his cheek. “Aunt Yen, will you help me write and send that letter?”

“Certainly, cub,” Yen says, and ushers Ciri out of the room, arm around the cub’s shoulders. Geralt raises an eyebrow at Eskel, and then very deliberately licks his palm.

“Ugh,” Eskel says, taking his hand away to wipe it on his trousers. Geralt smirks and licks his lips ostentatiously. Vesemir sighs and stands, beckoning Treyse to follow him.

“Try not to defile the council table,” he says wearily, and leaves, Treyse closing the door behind them firmly.

“No defiling,” Jaskier says. “Table’s far too uncomfortable when our bed is so close.” He sighs. “You know, my love, our cub comes by her courage by blood as well as how she’s been raised.”

Geralt smiles a little. “So she does.”

Eskel nods, and regards Jaskier thoughtfully. “You’ve already got the song half-written, don’t you, catmint.”

“Oh, of course,” Jaskier admits. “It’ll never be written down, I promise, but it’s such a good story! And Pavetta should be honored for her courage. I could maybe just do the _first_ bit, the betrothal dinner…”

“Lark,” Geralt says, shaking his head fondly, and rises, scooping Jaskier up over his shoulder. Jaskier yelps in surprise. “Come on, Eskel, we should distract him.”

“Gladly,” Eskel agrees, and follows his beloveds out, watching in vast amusement as Jaskier cranes his head to wink at him and reaches down to grope Geralt’s undeniably _very_ nice ass. Geralt jumps and makes a little startled noise, and Eskel joins Jaskier in laughter.

*

 _Dear Mama_ , Elen reads, and feels herself start to tear up. _I don’t really know what to say to you, but I wanted to write and tell you that you chose my Papa very, very well. Thank you._

Crach finds her sobbing quietly in her solar, and sits down at her feet, leaning against her legs and patting her hand gently, a comforting wall of warmth between Elen and the world. “There now, lass, it can’t be so bad as all that.”

“No,” Elen says. “It isn’t bad at all. I’m only happy, that’s all, happy as I never thought I’d be.”

“Well then, that’s alright,” Crach says, and digs a rather battered handkerchief out of a pocket, and waits with immense patience while she dries her eyes and blows her nose. “I’m glad.”

“So am I,” Elen says. “Oh, sweeting, so am I.”

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the utterly marvelous RoS13 for beta-ing this!
> 
> I've shamelessly stolen the Scots Gaelic words for 'father,' 'mother,' and 'stepmother'; let me know if I've gotten anything wrong, please!
> 
> Thank you all for your marvelous comments, kudos, and support, without which I could not keep writing this series. Please feel free to come and say hello on tumblr or discord!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Sought for the Open Sea](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27600421) by [AceOfTigers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceOfTigers/pseuds/AceOfTigers)




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